It was a strange thing The Rat did. It must always be remembered of him that his wretched father, who had each year sunk lower and lower in the under-world, had been a gentleman once, a man who had been familiar with good manners and had been educated in the customs of good breeding. Sometimes when he was drunk, and sometimes when he was partly sober, he talked to The Rat of many things the boy would otherwise never have heard of. That was why the lad was different from the other vagabonds. This, also, was why he suddenly altered the whole situation by doing this strange and unexpected thing. He utterly changed his expression and voice, fixing his sharp eyes shrewdly on Marco's. It was almost as if he were asking him a conundrum. He knew it would have been one to most boys of the class he appeared outwardly to belong to.
He would either know the answer or he wouldn't.
“I beg your pardon,'' The Rat said.
That was the conundrum. It was what a gentleman and an officer would have said, if he felt he had been mistaken or rude. He had heard that from his drunken father.
“I beg yours--for being late,'' said Marco.
That was the right answer. It was the one another officer and gentleman would have made. It settled the matter at once, and it settled more than was apparent at the moment. It decided that Marco was one of those who knew the things The Rat's father had once known--the things gentlemen do and say and think. Not another word was said. It was all right. Marco slipped into line with the Squad, and The Rat sat erect with his military bearing and began his drill:
“Squad!
“ 'Tention!
“Number!
“Slope arms!
“Form fours!
“Right!
“Quick march!
“Halt!
“Left turn!
“Order arms!
“Stand at ease!
“Stand easy!''
They did it so well that it was quite wonderful when one considered the limited space at their disposal. They had evidently done it often, and The Rat had been not only a smart, but a severe, officer. This morning they repeated the exercise a number of times, and even varied it with Review Drill, with which they seemed just as familiar.
“Where did you learn it?'' The Rat asked, when the arms were stacked again and Marco was sitting by him as he had sat the previous day.
“From an old soldier. And I like to watch it, as you do.''
“If you were a young swell in the Guards, you couldn't be smarter at it,'' The Rat said. “The way you hold yourself! The way you stand! You've got it! Wish I was you! It comes natural to you.''
“I've always liked to watch it and try to do it myself. I did when I was a little fellow,'' answered Marco.
“I've been trying to kick it into these chaps for more than a year,'' said The Rat. “A nice job I had of it! It nearly made me sick at first.''
The semicircle in front of him only giggled or laughed outright.
The members of it seemed to take very little offense at his cavalier treatment of them. He had evidently something to give them which was entertaining enough to make up for his tyranny and indifference. He thrust his hand into one of the pockets of his ragged coat, and drew out a piece of newspaper.
“My father brought home this, wrapped round a loaf of bread,'' he said. “See what it says there!''
He handed it to Marco, pointing to some words printed in large letters at the head of a column. Marco looked at it and sat very still.
The words he read were: “The Lost Prince.''
“Silence is still the order,'' was the first thought which flashed through his mind. “Silence is still the order.''
“What does it mean?'' he said aloud.
“There isn't much of it. I wish there was more,'' The Rat said fretfully. “Read and see. Of course they say it mayn't be true--but I believe it is. They say that people think some one knows where he is--at least where one of his descendants is.
It'd be the same thing. He'd be the real king. If he'd just show himself, it might stop all the fighting. Just read.''
Marco read, and his skin prickled as the blood went racing through his body. But his face did not change. There was a sketch of the story of the Lost Prince to begin with. It had been regarded by most people, the article said, as a sort of legend. Now there was a definite rumor that it was not a legend at all, but a part of the long past history of Samavia. It was said that through the centuries there had always been a party secretly loyal to the memory of this worshiped and lost Fedorovitch. It was even said that from father to son, generation after generation after generation, had descended the oath of fealty to him and his descendants. The people had made a god of him, and now, romantic as it seemed, it was beginning to be an open secret that some persons believed that a descendant had been found--a Fedorovitch worthy of his young ancestor--and that a certain Secret Party also held that, if he were called back to the throne of Samavia, the interminable wars and bloodshed would reach an end.
The Rat had begun to bite his nails fast.
“Do you believe he's found?'' he asked feverishly. “DON'T YOU?
I do!''
“I wonder where he is, if it's true? I wonder! Where?'' exclaimed Marco. He could say that, and he might seem as eager as he felt.
The Squad all began to jabber at once. “Yus, where wos'e?
There is no knowin'. It'd be likely to be in some o' these furrin places. England'd be too far from Samavia. 'Ow far off wos Samavia? Wos it in Roosha, or where the Frenchies were, or the Germans? But wherever 'e wos, 'e'd be the right sort, an' 'e'd be the sort a chap'd turn and look at in the street.''
The Rat continued to bite his nails.
“He might be anywhere,'' he said, his small fierce face glowing.
“That's what I like to think about. He might be passing in the street outside there; he might be up in one of those houses,'' jerking his head over his shoulder toward the backs of the inclosing dwellings. “Perhaps he knows he's a king, and perhaps he doesn't. He'd know if what you said yesterday was true--about the king always being made ready for Samavia.''
“Yes, he'd know,'' put in Marco.
